Burning Desire

Sneak Peek at Licensed to Kill

Intoxicating. That's what he was. His fiery hazel eyes seemed to change color with his mood. His smoldering kiss and spirited wit could render any woman equally exhilarated and speechless. He was confident, with just the right dose of cockiness. When he spoke, you wanted to listen. Not because you cared about the subject of the conversation, but because his voice was so enchanting. A deep, husky drawl that inevitably made you wonder what he sounded like in bed. He could command a room without even trying. He could melt your panties with a single flick of his dark brown hair and that sexy smirk he seemed to always be sporting. He was the kind of man you could count on to be your best friend when you needed him, and your worst enemy if you ever fucked him over. He was heroin and I was addicted.

 Four years ago. Washington, D.C.

The pads of my nearly frostbitten fingers skimmed over the cold metal. The shiny black pistol fit in my hand like it had been made just for me. It was practically pitch black inside the building, with the exception of a few thin rays of moonlight streaming in from the busted out windows. The silence was so deafening, I felt that I might succumb to the maddening ringing in my ears and slip into unconsciousness. But I couldn't. I had to keep moving. I had to keep listening to the sound of my breathing coming in slow, even pants as I crept through the empty corridor. It was the only sound filling the void besides my thundering heart.

I'd been slinking along the walls, pacing my steps and swallowing my fear, staying as silent as a mouse, just like I'd been taught. The gunfire had died down an agonizingly long ten minutes prior, but I knew it wasn't over yet. It wouldn't be that easy. It never was.

I squinted to check for any movement in the shadows. I strained to listen for any signs of my enemies. To both my relief and dismay, I came up empty with every peek around a corner and every glance behind my back. It would seem that I was alone in the eerie, abandoned warehouse, but I knew better than to trust the silence.

The building was littered with pounds upon pounds of illicit drugs that were intended predominantly for transatlantic sales. This wasn't marijuana either. These were the worst kinds of substances that were manufactured solely to generate money from addiction and ruin lives. My team was there to capture the leader of the drug trafficking ring, Enrique Bellucci, and take out any henchmen that accompanied him. We'd been directed to bring Bellucci back to headquarters, where he would be interrogated in hopes of getting information out of him that was pertinent to another ongoing case that A.R.T. was investigating.

The Alpha Reconnaissance Taskforce, headquartered in the nation's capital and operating out of the U.S., U.K., and Australia, was an elite, private agency dedicated to bringing down criminals of all kinds, internationally. We were the team that politicians, celebrities, and powerful businesspeople all over the globe turned to for the discreet handling of cases which they did not want to chance the public – especially the media – getting wind of. We were also allies of and occasional partners with the F.B.I., C.I.A., Interpol, Mossad, and N.S.A., among others. A.R.T. operated independently from any nations' governments, however; only assisting in investigations in which our expertise was requested.

Enrique Bellucci was a well-known, successful drug trafficker and murderer. He was known as Public Enemy Number One with the Italian government. They'd been trying to locate him and bring him to justice for over six years to no avail. Bellucci was one of the more intelligent criminals A.R.T. had come across. He always had a way to cover his tracks. On numerous occasions, authorities had thought they were on the cusp of finally catching him, only to discover that he always had a Plan B. As soon as you thought you had him, he disappeared again. Bellucci was notorious for sending himself on elaborate vacations after every time that he evaded capture, seemingly celebrating his victory and making fun of anyone who thought he was stupid enough to make that one wrong move we were all crossing our fingers for. The bastard was just too slick – or so he thought.